


As They Begin to Cough

by Wahkeetcha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Dealing with Disease, Disease, Gen, Plague, Quarantine, Sickness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wahkeetcha/pseuds/Wahkeetcha
Summary: Sickness. Plague. Quarantine. The Garrison is called to action.written for the April challenge for the We Are The Garrison facebook group
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	As They Begin to Cough

“Something is wrong.” Porthos feels his stomach drop down into his boots at those ominous words, his shoulders straighten and his eyes begin roving around the marketplace. Beside him and grasping a ripe apple Aramis watches the crowded marketplace, his green gloved hand rolling the forgotten morsel. Over the years of their friendship Porthos learned to listen to his perceptive friend, the man’s ability to sense danger before it presented itself having saved his life multiple times. To Porthos the crowded market looks the same as it always has, people milling about in a flurry of activity as they hawk their wears and make purchases. The baker is setting out an oven fresh batch, his cheerful baroque voice calling loudly to alert the crowd. The wool spinner lets out a loud cackle as she works the foot pedal and uses her long fingers to nimbly feed the yarn.

  
“What are you seeing brother?” he asks softly, watching the Spaniard closely. Aramis swings his head left and right, watching the crowd closely as the townspeople move by him in surges before ebbing away.

  
“There is an unusual amount of anxiousness to these people’s habits.” He declares and gently maneuvers through the crowd, the pauldron on his shoulder making most who notice scramble away. Porthos follows closely, his scowl deepening as Aramis heads for a darkened alleyway at the southeast corner of the market. Once there he gives Porthos a curious look and turns once more to observe the crowd, handing the larger Musketeer his apple. Porthos takes the red fruit and takes a large bite out of it, the brisk snap and sweetness distracting his stomach from its worried pitfall.

  
“There is something wrong…” he mutters once more and slumps back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as the crowd continues to bustle by, the women in particular casting worried glances at them as they pass. Porthos tries to smile reassuringly and wipes quickly at apple juice before tossing the core into the ally before wiping his hands on his leather trousers.

  
“Isadora.” Aramis calls softly to a young woman as she enters the market, her homemade basket empty as the full purse swinging against her hip. Porthos glances at the women and tries to flash her a reassuring smile as she turns, drawn to Aramis by the man’s beckoning hand. She’s a lovely young woman with dark chestnut hair and wide hazel eyes. She licks her lips nervously but steps in beside the Musketeer who gives her a charming smile.

  
“Isadora, what it happening?” he asks and Porthos wants to snort at the vagueness of the question, but stops himself from doing anything to discourage the young woman from answering. Isadora gives her lips one more flick of her tongue before she whispers in Spanish to Aramis, her words quick and low while worried eyes dart about. Porthos straightens further and crosses his arms menacingly, his scowl and sheer size making those curious about the words being exchanged lowly beside him move along with their tasks.

  
“Thank you Isadora, please take this as a token of my thanks. I apologize for keeping you from your task.” Aramis charms and produces a coin for the woman to take. She does and pockets the small amount before casting a nervous look at Porthos and darting away, her dark tan travel wrap quickly lost amongst the crowd.

  
“Before you ask, Isadore is a cook’s woman in a proper residence in the Artist Quarter. She was just a girl when I met her as a refugee on the boarder.” Aramis summarizes quietly as he starts walking out of the market, his eyes dark and a deepening scowl marring his handsome features.

  
“What did she say is going on?” Porthos rumbles as the two head up the narrow road, bypassing the street that would take them back to the Garrison and head towards the Artist’s Quarter. Aramis watches as several Red Guard pass by on their patrol and doesn’t comment until they are well out of earshot.  
“People have been getting sick. The Artist Quarter has six families currently sickened; three people have died.” He states and Porthos gives a sharp curse and throws his gaze upward briefly.

  
“High fever and a vicious cough. Two of those who have died have been children.” Aramis states as the two soldiers continue up the roadway, moving briskly through the midday crowd. The Artist Quarter is an area comprising of some of the most gorgeous houses Porthos has ever seen, their double pane windows large and he gives an appreciative sound at the bright gardens decorating the front of the houses. Aramis quickly walks by, his eyes roaming the street before finally settling on the horse drawn carriage on the opposite side of the roadway. Porthos gives a quiet groan as he follows the other man, his fingers itching to pull the bandanna from his head to cover his face. The coachman on the top of the hearse gives the two men a look before noticing the Fleur di Lis etched into the leather on their shoulders because he simply nods as they walk by the heads of his horses. Porthos hangs back as Aramis moves closer to the grieving family, hands quickly pulling the hat from his head and moving through the motions of the cross as he approaches. The coffin is tiny Porthos notes, his eyes stinging briefly at the idea of losing a child so little. As a boy, he was there when the undertaker came to retrieve his momma’s body from their tiny hovel, her lifeless body simply hauled up from her bed by the rough man and dragged outside to be tossed onto a cart containing other dead. He gives a shudder at the memory of the blank, lifeless eyes and toothless open jaws of the dead on the cart as the undertaker rattled the cart away, his mother’s grave unmarked and unconsecrated.

  
“My deepest condolences.” Aramis begins after the small coffin is placed carefully into the back of the hearse and the ornate doors closed solemnly behind it. The man standing beside the door watches Aramis with a tear streaked face, the lines on his face appearing to be deep craters of grief.

  
“What can we do for the King’s Musketeer’s? I have to say, I am closed for all orders.” The artist states and Porthos’ eyes briefly flicker to the sign above the doorway, the reflective surface fixed in an ornate boarder displaying the man’s talent as a mirror and glass man.

  
“I am not here on an errand for his majesty. May I ask what happened to your child sir?” Aramis questions and approaches the doorway, stopping several paces away, his hands holding his hat steadily. The artisan gives a choking sob and throws his hand to his eyes as the emotion overcomes him.

  
“He passed away… he was fine three days ago. Then he started coughing… the coughing was so deep it was like he was doing to turn inside out. His lips turned blue last night.” He sobs, straining to keep control as a woman’s sharp wails rupture from inside the house, a hacking cough punctuating the anguished wails. Porthos gives the coachman a solemn nod and leans close as the man beckons for him to come to the wheel.

  
“This is the fourth house I’ve been called too in the past week Musketeer. Tis a bad omen indeed.” He states softly and Porthos nods his understanding. The coachman straightens up and gives his horses a light tap of the whip and they begin to pull away from the curb, the small body of the dead child on display behind the glass. There is no family to walk behind the hearse, the savage coughing inside the house telling the large soldier that the child’s mother will soon be accompany her child. Aramis thanks the man and bows his head at the request of a prayer, the words spoken in flawless latin as Aramis makes the sign of the cross over himself and then the man standing miserably in the doorway. Aramis turns to Porthos and the two begin to the walk back to the Garrison, Aramis’ dark eyes troubled.

  
“The coachman said that was the fourth house he’d had a body to pick up at, just this pass week.” Porthos informs his friend and Aramis’ face grows even more troubled.  
“This isn’t good Porthos.” Aramis states and the large man gives a hum in response.

___

  
The Garrison is its usual hive of activity, the men not on duty elsewhere were training under the watchful eye of Treville. Athos is reclined on a barrel outside the armory, his expression neutral as he works at sharpening his sword. Porthos drops down beside the other man with a sigh and watches worriedly as Aramis passes them and heads for the second landing where the Captain is standing. The sharpshooter leans in close and exchanges a few words with the man that makes Treville’s usually stoic face crack briefly. With a final look at the men training in the yard he beckons for Aramis to follow and the two men stomp quickly up the stairs before disappearing into the office.

  
“Well, that was interesting.” D’Artagnan says as he wanders over from the stable where he’d been helping François with the shoeing of a cantankerous new remount. Athos simply continues his task, knowing Porthos will share when the large man has gathered his thoughts.

  
“Aramis says something is going on.” Porthos begins and looks down at his large hands before continuing.

  
“He said people in the market were acting frantic and when he saw someone he knew. The woman he asked works in a high-end house over in the quarter and she said people have been getting sick, some dying. We took a walk up to the quarter and sure as sin there was a hearse outside a mirror maker’s, picking up a dead child.” Porthos replays, his words soft and sad towards the end and Athos stops his mechanical motions and fixes the man with his full attention. The younger member of their group gives a snort and leans against the brickwork, his arms folding across his chest.

  
“Children die every day Porthos, it’s not an uncommon thing.” He says flippantly with the air of a young person lacking the experience his older companions have. Porthos glowers at the younger man for a moment and takes a deep breath, schooling himself to remain calm when answering the country grown youth.

  
“Yes, d’Artagnan children often die. But not from hacking coughs that turn their lips blue.” He growls out, trying to keep the anger from tinting his words. For his part the young man seems taken aback and looks to Athos for advice on how to proceed but the former Lord cuts in with his own questions.

  
“Is he thinking this could become an issue?” Athos stands and unites the scabbard with the now sharpened sword. Porthos gives a deep rumble and crosses his arms.

  
“The artisan’s wife didn’t sound good. Deep, awful hacking cough. The gravedigger said that he’d been picking bodies up over the past week.” Porthos admits and watches the Captain’s door open, both men exiting swiftly. The captain’s hat pulled down over his brow and the blue cloak draped over his shoulder as they descend the stairs. Aramis gravely follows, his own hat atop his head as he follows behind the Captain but casts a look at Porthos and the others as they head for the stables.

  
“Not good.” Athos states solemnly and walks out from the awning to greet the Captain as he pulls his horse up. The two men exchange soft words as Aramis reins his horse in beside Treville. His jaw is tight and shoulders equally as tense, expression troubled. Athos gives his Captain a stern head nod and steps back with a word of luck as the two men kick their horses on, disappearing through the gate.

  
“We have to prepare. They are going to inform his Majesty and the Cardinal. Gentlemen, we have been tasked with preparing for a quarantine order. Porthos and I will patrol the Artisan Quarter and note all exits from the area where we will have to put men. D’Artagnan, you will be sent around the area and speak with the undertakers, try to pin down the houses that have had dead removed. Be discreet, I cannot distress it enough, we are not to cause a panic. You are merely seeking information and not to speak of your task to anyone.” Athos commands, easily falling into his duties as the second in command. The young man gives a slight balk at his orders but settles when Athos gives him a tired glare.

  
“Listen, I know this seems odd to begin preparing for something that is simply based off the deaths in a quadrant of the city, but you have to believe me when I say the reaction to this type of can’t be anything but prompt.” Athos explains, his tone even but tinged with authority he rarely uses on those closest to him.

  
“If Aramis says something is going on… something is going on. I’ve never known his gut to turn him wrong.” Porthos chimes, pushing himself from the wall and slipping his fingers around the hilt of his sword, the weight giving the large warrior comfort. With a nod the young man turns and heads out, his boots hitting the cobblestones as he disappears from sight.

  
“Let’s go.” Athos says and together the two soldiers head out, their boots taking them back to the Artisan Quarter at a fairly quick pace.

\---

  
It was well after nightfall when the clop of hooves on stone announces the arrival of Treville and Aramis, both men share the same tired expression. Aramis heads for the bench his brother occupy and drops down beside Porthos, his shoulder bumping into the larger man’s companionably. Treville tosses his hat on the table and drops onto one of the stumps serving as a seat, his fingers rubbing his temples wearily.

  
“His Highness wants us to keep an eye on the Quarter and report daily the progression of those sick. The Cardinal has began to put into place measures for a quarantine effort should deaths reach above an acceptable number within the next week.” He says tiredly and looks up at the three men.

  
“What did d’Artagnan find out from the undertakers? I see he isn’t here to report.” He asks and looks around briefly to check where the youngest recruit is. Athos leans forward on the bench and presents the Captain with the map he’d had made up while on their walk to the quarter.

  
“I sent him to check with doctors in that area and inquire as to how many have been making house calls this past week. The points we need to have men available to guard are marked here. The locations of those infected houses are circled.” Athos informs and turns the map over to Treville with a sad sigh. Aramis half raises and peers at the map as well, his tired expression made darker by the flickering of the candle Porthos helpfully holds over the map.

  
“This house will have another victim by Sunday.” He states sadly, pointing at the glass maker’s home. Porthos winces at the memory of the woman’s sobbing coughs and the clammy skin of the Artisan himself. Treville nods and rolls the map up, his fingers nimbly tying the thongs before standing.

  
“Will you be waiting for d’Artagnan to report?” he asks and Athos responds with an affirmative.

  
“I want to know what he has to say, we will consult the map again in the morning.” He orders and with a nod to the soldiers at the table he heads up the stairs to his office, defeat evident in the set of the man’s noble shoulders. The three friends sit in silence for a few minutes as Aramis pulls apart a cold roll, his fingers working through the dough.  
“If this is a plague, it will spread fast. Air born and water reared are two of the worse pandemics I’ve seen, neither are easy to track or stop.” Aramis sighs despondently, his eyes dark as they stare at the flickering taper on the table. Athos gives a grunt of agreement, knowing his lifetime soldiering friend would have seen the development of many diseases during the campaigns he’d been on. His own hamlet had been struck with a fever when he was just a boy- well before meeting Milady and her treacherous ways- and his father had sent Thomas and he away from their home in fear of the spreading ailment. When it was deemed safe for them to return to their home, most of their boyhood friends in the village had died.

  
“What did Louis have to say?” Porthos asks, pouring Aramis a mug of ale and setting it before the man with a pointed look of command. Aramis gives him a weary smirk but takes a long draw from the mug before giving a sad sigh.

  
“He wasn’t nearly as concerned as he should be. But that being said—I only have the word of a servant girl and those recounts of our time in the Quarter as explanation as to my fears.” Aramis respond glumly, fingers still pulling at the bread as his fingers work mindlessly. Porthos and Athos both know the pampered King wouldn’t take notice of his Musketeer’s knowledge as the man had never served in or seen battle. Porthos knows for a fact, when Aramis says something the warning should be heeded and acted upon as he was seldom wrong.

  
“The Cardinal, however, took my words seriously and is already formulating his own scheme. Whether it is to gain in popularity or harm another’s reputation I have no idea, but he is at least mobilizing efforts if this truly does become an issue.” Aramis concludes and Athos gives a fleeting thanks for that at least. Porthos blows out a breath, his cheeks puffing out before he slumps into himself.

  
“It’s a waitin’ game now then.” He says and Athos shares a nod with Aramis, all three men settling into companionable silence as they wait for the younger recruit to return form his errand.

  
\--

  
Porthos studies the bright red sky from his post at one of the entrances to the Quarter, his breath causing the fabric of his bandana to stick to his face. He knows the neatly trimmed beard is wet with moisture but he dares not remove the wrapping, Aramis’ firm order playing in his mind from the briefing a week ago.  
“Cover your mouth and nose, cloth of a thicker weight will work. This is obviously air born miasma that infects whoever breathes in its dirty spores. You will wear protection any time you are within the perimeter of the Quarter.” He advised as the men were lined up in the training yard, their orders grim. The veteran Musketeer’s accepted their stations and the advice of the marksman without balking, simply tearing up shirts or sheets to make their own protection before setting out to take up guard at all entrances to the Quarter. The younger recruits, d’Artagnan included balked at the idea of having to wear protection if they weren’t stationed within the compromised area. Some of them also balked at the idea of shutting people into their homes, disallowing anyone to enter or leave the Quarter.

  
They thought they could choose.  
Treville told them differently.

  
“Red sky at morning.” D’Artagnan says from behind his own mask across the mere eight-foot entrance. Both men held spears and had been on duty overnight and the early morning reds showed them their duty was almost over for the day. Porthos gives a mighty yawn from behind his mask and rolls his shoulders to chase away the morning chill. Boots on cobblestone announce the approach of a pedestrian and Porthos leans around the corner to find a portly man hurrying along the pathway, his bag of possessions clutched to his chest. With a nod to the younger man, both soldiers drop their spears into an X formation just as the merchant is about to break free from the confines, his distressed hiss of displeasure causing Porthos to roll his eyes.

  
“I am a respected merchant of this city and I demand to be let through!” he putters ignorantly, his double chins wobbling and flushed red. Porthos eyes the man for a moment, looking for the tell tale signs of the a disease stricken person and finds the man’s glassy eyes and red face indicative of someone in the early stages of the miasmatic affects.

  
“You will return to your home per order of his Majesty.” Porthos states with a growl, his hand gripping the spear tighter as the merchant begins to huff indignantly. Both men stand their ground as the merchant begins sobbing miserably, his red face almost melting with tears and fever sweat as he backs up to a wall and sinks down into the muck and grime of the city street. He flings his satchel that had been clinging to his chest aside, the roadway becoming littered with pearls and jeweled bracelets. D’Artagnan spies a miniature portrait still in its ornate frame and gestures to it with a nod of his head. Porthos gives a sad sigh at the sight of the painting, its depiction of a child and mother in a happy embrace. Neither man moves from their position, spears still crossed as the merchant begins to cough.

  
\--

  
Aramis stands wearily beside the wagon and desperately prays that this is the last household he’d be tasked with visiting. Athos also waits, watching the street wearily as a few brave citizens venture from their homes to witness the removal of their neighbor’s mortal remains. This particular household was hit hard by the sickness, every member right down to the spit boy who turned the meat and milked the family goat were taken within the span of a few days. Aramis was just at this house on Tuesday to remove the three children and an elderly maid. Today, he was waiting as the last adult body was placed under the oilcloth. With a severe nod to the tired undertaker the remains are carted away, the only cart allowed in and out of the quarantined district under Musketeer guard. Red Guards patrol the streets and enforce the King’s decree of everyone to shelter in their homes and check the dwellings for those infected. The indicator of a stricken household is a gruesome red P scrawled across their doors and no one is allowed to enter or leave those homes—including the healthy trapped inside. Under the strict orders of Treville the Musketeer regiment is tasked with escorting the few devoted women of God who dared to venture into a plague-stricken city, armed with their faith and a knowledge of how-to bring peace to those dying. These women, dressed in their white habits and course cloth aprons moved from house to house, ringing a bell solemnly to alert their Musketeer escorts of the ruins inside the house.

  
“Sister Marie says this house has been emptied.” A young woman says as she surveys the Red Guard as they begin nailing the door to the home shut. The onlookers in the street are fairly silent, a few of them are sobbing but they are all adhering to the King’s decree to cover their faces if they have to be amongst their fellow residents. In the beginning the higher-class members of the Quarter refused to believe there was a sickness lurking amongst their households, their disbelief that they would be touched by such a common ailment wasn’t heard of.

  
That’s why 72 bodies had to be removed from the quarter, because infectious miasma doesn’t happen to the good sort. The well-off folks of the city could never be touched by such a… low class ailment.

  
“What good are your gilded cages if you’re laying in a plaque pit?” Aramis whispers as he walks with Athos up the hill to the last few houses in the Quarter, the group of white habited nuns move tirelessly from house to house, their soft prayers giving strength to those faltering. Sister Marie is a no-nonsense older woman, her craggy face hardened to her task of doing what could be done for those living and wizened hands conducting end of life rights to those who had passed. Aramis likes Sister Marie; her beliefs are very similar to the soldier and they both agreed to the safety of the face coverings once she saw how quickly the healthy became infected.

  
“I believe that was the last house we had to clear this morning gentlemen. My fellows and I will retire for a few hours respite.” Sister Marie states as she circles back to the two Musketeers stationed at the back of their ranks. Athos gives a nod and adjusts the cloth covering his face.

  
“Of course, Sister. We will be back to assist you in a few hours for another round. I hope it will be less then it was this morning.” He says tiredly and Aramis can see the exhaustion etched onto his features. Aramis can feel his own body’s demands for rest and sustenance but keeps an iron hold on his resolve. Three weeks since he and Porthos set foot in this section of the city. Three weeks since the Musketeers were mobilized to begin quarantine of the Artisan Quarter and the medic feels like they’ve reached the high point of the loss of life, his body tired as he falls into step beside Athos.

  
“What are you thinking?” Athos asks, voice muffled behind the mask as the two men follow the column of women back down the hill. Ahead of them a team of draft horses pull the daily rations cart through the barricade, the Red Guard assigned to hand out food are just as exhausted and emotionally weary as the Musketeers. Gone are the typical jeers and ribbing the two units would give each other, all hostilities put on hold as the two groups work together to protect their city from the choking miasma.  
“Would you two mind helping us? We got skimmed coming through the gate. Guard our backside will you boys?” Mandeville calls with a wave and Athos gives him a stern nod. With a tired sigh Aramis draws his sword and moves to the offside of the food cart, his eyes watching the crowd wearily as the face covered residents crowd forward. He was glad to see all those assembled for their rations were finally adhering to the King’s decree as the disease seems to be slowing through their united efforts. Amongst those gathered he recognizes the dark eyes of Isadora, her basket held in the same manner as that day in the market. Her employers’ home had been hit with the cough, two of the elderly residents sadly were some of the first victims but it brought his heart a small measure of joy to his heart to see the young woman looking fairly healthy. She approaches the wagon and receives her rations of bread, vegetables, eggs and meat wordlessly before she looks across at the Musketeer.  
“How are you fairing Isadora?” he asks softly and the young woman gives a long sigh.

  
“We are surviving. No one else is showing signs of the sickness, so that is good. I am the only one allowed to leave the house. With Nicoleta gone I have been promoted to cook.” She says with an edge of excitement to her voice. Nicoleta was one of those struck down by the sickness, the elderly cook leaving only Isadora and the pot boy left of the kitchen staff. The jump from Cook’s assistant to the Cook was a big leap for a girl who sought refuge in a strange city only a few short years ago and Aramis allows himself to feel the joy she is trying to conceal.

  
“That is a prestigious move Isadora, I am sure you will do fine.” He assures her and the woman gives a sad sigh, shifting the basket from one arm to another.  
“I wish Nicoleta and I had more time to go over the finesse of the job, but I am able to make due.” She offers sadly, tears gathering in her dark eyes. She reaches out her hands and he clasps them before giving her cool hands a firm squeeze.

  
“This too shall pass. Keep your faith.” He whispers in Spanish as the woman nods and draws back, her resolve reflected in the set of her shoulders as she begins to walk back to her home, basket laden with supplies. Athos crosses the small distance to him with a knowing smirk evident in the cut of his eyes above the mask.

  
“Shush you. She’s a child.” He clucks at the other man and Athos places a hand on the other’s shoulder

  
“Peace friend. Come, they are finished with us. We need to seek our own sustenance and rest while we can.” Athos commands and together the two soldiers walk towards the barricade, the world outside the quarantine bustling by at a safe distance from the miasma. In the trees overhead Aramis can hear the birds chirping and singing, hopefully signaling the end of the plight.

  
\---

  
Six weeks later Porthos and Aramis walk through the Artisan Quarter, the darkness that plagued the area having finally dissipated as the warmer weather finally arrived. During those weeks the entire quarter ended up losing roughly one hundred residents of various ages. The Artisans were hit hard, many of the creative people were killed by the sickness or never recovered financially. Unable to work and their doors still painted with the plague colors, many patrons refused to enter or commission work from those people struggling. Aramis knows the Queen had helped set up a relief fund in hopes of keeping those Artisans in the city and working, but with the loss of whole families there were many empty storefronts.

  
“It’s almost eerie now, how quiet this area is.” Porthos remarks around bites of his pear as the two long time friends make their way past the glassworks, the door open to release the building heat from the shop. The artisan and his wife followed their young child to the grave digger’s hands shortly after the start, the shop having been used for the Sisters as a headquarters as they tended to the sick and dying. As quickly as they appeared, the women had disappeared back to their convent and Aramis had never felt such a relief to see the back of their habits. The shop has been rented by a young man fresh out of his apprenticeship and with a young wife, both eager to seize their success.  
“In the wake of tragedy, great things can happen.” Aramis says, his eyes roaming over the cobbled streets and ornate windows of the houses. The opulence of the area seems tarnished now, the stately houses with fresh painted doors do little to disguise the shadow of red paint and the blue lipped former residents. Porthos finishes his pear and quickly ditches it amongst the flowering ornate pot standing guard at the steps of a painter’s studio, Aramis shooting his large friend a conspiratorial smirk.

\--

  
In the end the Cardinal was recognized for his forethought and dedication to the health and security of the French people. Aramis stood at attention beside his brothers as the humanitarian medal is awarded to a man who barely lifted his finger to aid those suffering but says nothing. He is a soldier, he is a Musketeer, his does his duty without needing to be rewarded. Beside him, Porthos doesn’t agree and the scowl on Athos’ noble face shows he agrees with the larger man. Treville does protest on the behalf of his men but the King is easily distracted by the presentation of another matter, a wave of a beringed hand sends the Musketeers away like the simple servants to the crown they are. Outside of the chamber Treville gives a tired sigh and glances at his men.

  
“You performed your duties well. If it wasn’t for your instinct, we would have lost many more souls than we did. The King may not have recognized your early intervention on the behalf of the people, but I did. Your brothers did. I hope that will be enough for you.” He says in way of apology, knowing full well that Aramis’ keen eye and insistence was the minor difference between a minor quarantine and a full scale shut down of the city. Aramis simply nods his head, humbled by his Captains words.

  
“You are all expected to be at your posts tonight. Dismissed.” He commands and the four waits till their Captain moves back towards the door to the chamber, disappearing inside with a squaring of his shoulders. Aramis and Porthos fall into step beside Athos and d’Artagnan, their footfalls echoing in the opulent halls of the palace.  
“I wonder if there will ever be a cure for a sickness like that.” D’Artagnan says whimsically as he plucks a small flower from one of the bushes on his way by, twirling the pink bud in his fingers.

  
“When we are dead and gone it really won’t matter.” Porthos remarks, scratching at his beard idly.

  
“Sickness will continue to change society every time it crops up and spreads.” Athos says in his usual wry way, a smirk twisting his features.

  
“Curious minds may just change the future of how we deal with sickness. Imagine someone coming up with a herb… or a topical remedy to treat sickness? I’m sure we will never see it, but that doesn’t mean someone won’t find it. All we can do is learn from these experiences and adapt so we are better to respond to it and maybe the next generation will learn something from us.” Aramis articulates, his gaze moving up to the bright spring sun and the nearly cloudless blue sky.

  
“Those who do not learn from the past are doomed to repeat it.”

End.


End file.
